Rodeo-Chediski Fire: Painful memories linger

by Dennis Wagner - Jun. 17, 2012 11:22 PMThe Republic | azcentral.com

A decade later, images of the Rodeo-Chediski Fire remain seared in the memories of those who fought it, feared it and fled it.

Kate Klein, then the Black Mesa Fire District ranger, recalls driving through a smoke-filled forest of black and orange: "I will never forget the huge plumes and the running crown fires and limbs flying off of trees and bursting into flames. It was just awesome in a disastrous sort of way."

Floyd Stapley remembers fleeing his log house in Pinedale with only a handful of possessions, then seeing news photographs of the place engulfed in a 50-foot swirl of flame. "It was built to burn," mutters Stapley, who returned and rebuilt. "I don't recommend the experience to anyone."

"We lost everything," adds his wife, Jean. "It still isn't easy."

Mel Epps, then the fire chief in Heber-Overgaard, recalls three nightmarish days when the Rodeo-Chediski blowtorch consumed 268 buildings. "It just kept circling around us because there was so much fuel," he says. "It was dark, there was so much smoke and ash in the air, like midnight in Alaska. Really sinister, with the sun just an orange dot. A firefighter came up to me and said, 'I just walked through the pathway to hell.'"

For more than a week during the summer of 2002, crews were unable to gain control of even the smallest piece of the fire. In a single 24-hour period, 113,400 acres were torched. The two fires -- the Rodeo, set June 18 by a firefighter looking for work, and the Chediski, set June 20 by a stranded motorist signaling for help -- merged into a monster blaze on June 23. It burned for 60 days, expanding into what at the time was the largest wildfire on record in Arizona. Rodeo-Chediski ultimately consumed more than 468,000 acres -- an area larger than Phoenix, Tempe and Scottsdale combined -- and destroyed 481 structures.

During the battle, walls of flame scaled the Mogollon Rim with such ferocity that firefighters were forced to retreat. The plume of smoke loomed 30,000 feet overhead.

With 10 years of hindsight, those who faced down Rodeo-Chediski may focus on divergent issues: Some remain outraged at the fire starters or upset with the initial response. Some dwell on the charity of neighbors, the heroism of hotshots. Some mourn the loss of a ponderosa forest that may never grow back.

But all retain a sense of awe at the terrifying magnitude of the fire, and the dramatic battle to stop it.

Jim Paxon, a fire-information officer who became the voice of Rodeo-Chediski, said his mind often wanders back to the momentous decision to evacuate Show Low.

"June 22, 7 p.m. We anticipated fire being in town the afternoon of the 23rd, and continuing on the 24th and 25th. That was an extreme burden, a sucker punch," he says. "We gave 30,000 people 12 hours to pack up."

Gene Kelley, then-mayor of Show Low, says there was no alternative: "Fire was forecast to burn over the entire town. ... It made people understand the difference between things of value and everything else."

Divine intervention cited

Along the main highway known as the Deuce of Clubs, cars and trailers were backed up, barely moving, stacked with possessions like in "The Beverly Hillbillies," Kelley says. Yet motorists politely waited for traffic coming out of side streets. No one honked or cursed. There were no wrecks.

Many headed to Red Cross shelters but wound up staying with Good Samaritans -- strangers who showed up to offer temporary housing.

Kelley remains fixated on what happened June 24: At the last minute, humidity levels inexplicably jumped from 4percent to 48 percent. The wind reversed direction, blowing fire back on itself. Firefighters were able to go on the offensive. Show Low was saved with barely a spot blaze penetrating municipal boundaries.

Kelley says news media failed to report on the divine intervention, but he has no doubts: "The Lord, in his wisdom and for whatever reason -- not because of our righteousness -- decided to spare the White Mountains."

Paxon notes that God had help. Aerial tankers dumped a single-day record 86,000 gallons of retardant. Hotshots rushed in to produce a line of defense along U.S. 60, cutting 14 miles of breaks and setting backfires in just 18 hours.

"That burnout was a miracle," adds Paxon, who retired from the Forest Service and now works as a spokesman for the Arizona Game and Fish Department. "We were able to keep fire out of Show Low."

Similar efforts were under way all the way west to Forest Lakes. Epps says he and another firefighter -- a war veteran -- were at the Pinecrest Lake mobile-home park when 182 of the 200 dwellings were incinerated, along with numerous propane tanks.

"You could see 'em and hear 'em explode, like rockets going off. He said, 'Good hell, Mel, I feel like I'm back in Vietnam.'"

Les and Mary Jane Wagner, who still live in Pinecrest Lake, retreated to their winter home in Mesa as the fire approached.

Days later, they drove to an evacuation center in Payson and found people handing out photographs of their park home burned to the ground with only the U.S. flag still flying out front -- a symbol of resilience. The Wagners, who still have their scorched Stars and Stripes, recovered nothing else except melted pennies.

"I miss all the trees," says Mary Jane, gazing at what was once a forest. "I think we get a lot more wind now because they're not there."

Firefighters, residents and others talk about the teamwork and compassion that prevailed during those days, along with smoke. Yet there was also pain and an undercurrent of bitterness.

Bob Garvin, now chief of the Clay Springs-Pinedale Volunteer Fire Department, says Rodeo-Chediski was targeting his community as emergency commanders withdrew their command post to Show Low. Garvin, who was a captain at the time, refused to leave, and other firefighters joined him in a sort of mutiny that caused their chief to resign as the fire raged.

Garvin says his team was written off by fire bosses, so locals tried to defend Clay Springs and Pinedale on their own. Flames swallowed the local firehouse, Garvin's workshop and other structures. During the initial wave, volunteers were forced to back off and watch, then race back in and fight.

"Sure it was dangerous," Garvin says, his voice still tinged with stubbornness. "But what do they teach you? How to put out fire -- not to run from it. ... We saved a lot of places."

The outcast crew, including Garvin's wife, Renee, ate smoke on the line for 18 days. Their total compensation: $10 each to pay for laundering turnout gear.

Garvin contends that the fires might have been controlled early if non-Indian volunteers had been brought in during the Rodeo Fire's first few hours, along with more hand crews and aircraft. He also believes retreat orders were issued with excess caution.

Not worth a life

The Rodeo Fire was set near Cibecue by a troubled firefighter named Leonard Gregg.

Paxon, in his book on Rodeo-Chediski -- "The Monster Reared His Ugly Head" -- provides a minute-by-minute account of radio dispatches, revealing an immediate response with aerial tankers, hotshots and engine companies. He says criticism of the Fort Apache fire team is unjustified: Within minutes, the fire was so big, hot and fast-moving that nothing could be done.

"The Rodeo Fire burned in blow-up conditions," he notes. "It changed from the awakening dragon to a multiheaded monster, roaring and spewing flame as it grew by leaps and bounds."

The Chediski blaze was set by Valinda Jo Elliott, a Valley woman who -- after being lost for three days in the forest -- ignited some brush to signal a news helicopter for her rescue. Although it was reported immediately, confusion caused a delay of more than 90 minutes before any firefighting response. According to Paxon's account, the initial attack was stymied because tankers and crews already were engaging the Rodeo Fire. Within hours, high winds grounded all aircraft.

Paxon says the combined fire was unlike any he or other veterans had ever seen -- "off the behavior calculation charts" -- and could not be fought, according to the book. At one point, it burned 10,000 acres in 15 minutes. Embers were flying through the air up to a mile ahead of the main fronts, igniting new blazes. A wall of orange 6 miles wide was racing over the Mogollon Rim at 20 mph, throwing flames 400 feet skyward.

Paxon says prudence often demanded a fallback. Even where firefighters stood their ground, many homes were "red-tagged," or marked as too perilous to protect.

"When you have 2,000-degree flames, you can't be there in front of them," Paxon adds. "There was some real anger that we weren't putting people in harm's way. But there's not an acre, a house or a tree worth someone's life."

Klein, the ranger, says drought, low humidity and high winds conspired to create the perfect firestorm. She had never seen the woods so tinder-dry -- so primed for fire. Days earlier, Forest Service officials decided to launch air tankers immediately on any fire in the high country.

"I could feel it in the air," says Klein, now in charge of the Ochoco National Forest in Oregon. "Just a sense of tension."

"All that was needed was somebody to pull the trigger, and that's what happened," agrees Paxon. "That was just its time to burn. We couldn't have had any more firefighters, tankers and helicopters in place to stop the fire."

Wounds may never heal

As the battle proceeded, President George W. Bush paid a visit and offered encouragement. The fire ruined businesses. Vistas were spoiled. And then monsoon rains moved in, blackening streams with ash and mud.

Some people, including a few politicians, began pointing fingers. They blamed the federal government, environmentalists, firefighters and one another. Rumor got so mixed with truth and emotions that it's still hard to sort out things. Yet, when it was over, not one person had been killed or seriously injured.

Kelley, who still serves on the Show Low City Council, recalls driving along the Rim afterward, taking in the devastation.

"There were just so many gorgeous hills and beautiful places that were all black," he says. "It made you want to puke. And it won't come back in any of our lifetimes."

Replanting efforts were localized, limited and mostly unsuccessful.

Garvin walks outside his house and points to plastic cones on the forest floor where pine sprouts were planted years ago in a reforestation effort. "They were shooting for 10 percent survival," he says. "I don't think we got that."

Scrub oak and buck brush now proliferate in place of the magnificent stands of ponderosa. There is no sound of the breeze whispering through pine needles.

Paxon says the Rodeo-Chediski's wound on the landscape may never heal completely. Yet, in mid-May, there was enough vegetation to fuel a new blaze in the scarred area. The Bull Flat Fire burned along Canyon Creek -- once a blue-ribbon trout stream -- consuming resurgent undergrowth.

Paxon says the forest needs an occasional fire to flourish, to cleanse underbrush and thickets so that another monster doesn't erupt.

"What Mother Nature wants to do is run through there and clean up all the jackstraw," he says. "You can't keep fire out, so let's have it burn on our terms."